


Very Bad

by BakerKeen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lost Love, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, References to Suicide, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerKeen/pseuds/BakerKeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock realizes that John has not initiated any kind of interaction for the past several weeks, he becomes worried and tries to figure out what's wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I added a mild dubcon tag out of an abundance of caution. I think most people in established relationships would make the same assumptions Sherlock does here. Should not really be triggering.

The first thing Sherlock noticed, and it took embarrassingly longer than it ought to have done, was that John was being abnormally quiet. Sherlock, of course, had been careening as usual from rambling for hours to silent absorption in his mind palace or experiments or violin. Normally, John would be constantly steering him toward midline, never letting his tendencies toward mania or isolation go unchecked for very long, but lately he'd been indulging his mood swings without comment. Once Sherlock realized that John was letting him lead, he thought back and realized that John had not initiated a single exchange in weeks. And once he realized _that_ , he reviewed all the available data and sorted it.

Was John feeling taken for granted? Waiting to see how long it would take him to notice they were barely speaking? Not likely. John was sometimes aggressive, but rarely passively so, and he certainly couldn't keep it going for weeks without bursting into a fit of rage. John resolved their differences head-on, with either endearments and caresses or swearing and a dangerous eye glint that let Sherlock know to retreat.

Was John preoccupied? Troubled? Had there been bad news, or a nightmare, or a flashback, and Sherlock had missed it? He thought not, but he checked John's emails, blog, and social media accounts to be sure. Nothing. Suspiciously little, actually; he'd liked a few pictures on Instagram last week, and had responded to a few Facebook posts he'd been tagged in, but had otherwise been as quiet online as in person. He was drinking a bit more than normal, but nothing concerning. He wasn't limping, hadn't touched his gun, wasn't showing signs of fear or anxiety. Sherlock was hard-pressed to identify any particular emotional state, actually. John was simply _placid_. Withdrawn.

Sherlock sighed in frustration. John was the caretaker. When Sherlock noticed that John was too much inside his own head, he usually did something dangerous and then everything sorted itself from there, but they had just worked a ransom case that had ended with John rugby tackling a kidnapper. If adrenaline didn't fix what ailed John, Sherlock was lost.

He was still analyzing the data when John trudged up the stairs to the flat, hung his coat by the door, and slumped wordlessly on the sofa. Sherlock observed carefully without appearing to as he slouched next to John and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. "How was work?"

John slid his eyes open just long enough to shoot Sherlock an appraising glance. "You already know."

Sherlock sniffed. "You prefer when I let you tell me yourself. I've no idea why, but as you put up with so many of my idiosyncrasies I can hardly complain."

John's lips twitched a bit. "Can't you?"

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and waited for John to speak, but of course he didn't. After a long moment of silence, Sherlock sat up a bit and tugged John's tie loose before slipping it over his head. "It was a tiresome day," he began in response to John's curious glance. Unfastening John's shirt buttons efficiently, he continued. "You had to do three sets of stitches on adults who fell off those ridiculous hoverboard contraptions they no doubt got their children for Christmas. A child vomited in your exam room. A man came in looking for pain meds, but he was faking. Plus the normal cases of strep, flu, colds, etc." John sat up so Sherlock could push the shirt off of him and pull the vest over his head. "Turn."

John turned his back to Sherlock and sighed contentedly when he began massaging his shoulders. Sherlock frowned, slowly kneading the tight muscles, quickly focusing in on his bad shoulder. "You need a muscle relaxant," he murmured. "How did it get in this state?"

John didn't answer right away, waiting for Sherlock to release a particularly tight muscle spasm. "Landed the wrong way when I tackled that kidnapper. It's not that ba-ad." John's voice faltered as Sherlock found another spasm. He groaned as the muscle fluttered and relaxed. "I thought this was going to be a sexy massage."

"I had designs on you before I felt the condition of your shoulder." Sherlock stood, crossing to the kitchen to pull coconut oil out of a cupboard before returning. He scooped some out of the jar and rubbed it between his hands, then continued his work on John's bad shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me?" John shrugged his good shoulder in response. For ten minutes, they sat in silence aside from the hissing and sighing and sharp breaths from John as Sherlock beat his shoulder into submission.

Sherlock's mind raced as his hands moved slowly, firmly over John's back and shoulder. _He doesn't want to talk, he relaxed as soon as he realized I wasn't going to try and force a conversation, he tensed when I started to undress him, he was afraid I wanted to have sex, why would John be afraid of sex, John loves sex, was John raped, don't be ridiculous of course he wasn't raped just look at how he's been walking, he's not anxious, no that's not right, he's anxious I'll try to engage him, maybe he's fallen out of love with me, maybe he's fallen out of love with me, maybe he's fallen out of love with me, maybe he's fallen out of love with me, maybe he's fallen out of love with me, maybe he's fallen out of love with me._

Sherlock shook his head, dislodging the refrain echoing there. He needed to remain calm and figure this out. He reviewed the evidence. John didn’t want to look at him, or touch him, or talk to him. He responded to direct questions, of course, and if Sherlock kissed him, he allowed it, but there was no enthusiasm or encouragement; he didn’t seem to really _enjoy_ it. 

Trying valiantly to remain dispassionate in his analysis of the facts, Sherlock decided that John falling out of love with him was one possible conclusion. He cast his deductions farther, outside of 221b, to determine whether it was the only one. 

John has been quiet on crime scenes. It has been taking him 60-90 seconds longer than average to examine corpses. Sherlock has often observed him reexamining a wound or a contusion, as though he had forgotten what he had already seen. After John neutralized the kidnapper, he wanted to get home to go to bed. Usually after a rush of adrenaline he's too giddy for sleep; he wants to get dinner and shag. And he didn't go out for pints with Lestrade this week as normal. He's been skipping supper and going to bed almost as soon as he gets home from work nearly every evening. 

Sherlock forced himself to focus, and to whittle down his evidence into facts. Decreased appetite, hypersomnia, decreased energy, emotional emptiness, inability to focus, and a lack of interest and enjoyment in nearly all activities. Sherlock’s hands paused for a moment as the obviousness of it came crashing down on him. A wave of relief overtook him, followed swiftly by shame. He knew that John had battled depression in the past and that he had, in fact, been in dire straits when they’d met. Sherlock had always assumed that to be situational, as he had gone off his antidepressants within 2 months of moving into the flat and had seemed fine ever since. Happy. Rather deliriously so, over the past six months. 

Finally, a spasm Sherlock had been working on shuddered and released, simultaneously releasing other muscles down John's back, and his shoulder dropped a half-inch. Sherlock scooped a bit more oil, spreading it on both shoulders now with smooth, firm strokes. He leaned forward to kiss John's ear. "Better?" John hummed a yes, closing his eyes against the relaxing sensation of his battered muscles being soothed. "Let's move to the bed. I can do more on your shoulder if you're lying down and you'll be more comfortable when you pass out on me."

John protested sleepily. "it's much better, you don't have to--"

Sherlock kissed the words off his mouth, and John tensed slightly before relaxing with what seemed like deliberate effort. Sherlock pulled back, keeping his face playful. "When you're me, you learn that it's smart to build up credit with people you know you'll annoy later. Come. You might as well take a Flexaril and some ibuprofen while you're up."

John rolled his eyes. "I haven't got any Flexaril."

Sherlock waved him off, pulling him up by his good arm. "I have. In the sewing kit in the closet." John sighed and shook his head but didn't argue with Sherlock about his ill-gotten prescription drugs.

This was bad. John was very hesitant to prescribe Sherlock anything he could potentially abuse even when he knew Sherlock genuinely needed them. When he did, he kept the pills locked up, doled them out precisely on schedule and only as needed, and then crushed the leftovers and mixed them in with Mrs. Turner's bags of used kitty litter. John ought to shout and swear and take his sewing kit and leave the flat in a flurry of slamming doors and stomping feet.

Sherlock set that aside for future consideration and retrieved said pills and a glass of water as John stripped down to his boxer-briefs. John took them without comment and watched as Sherlock undressed and pulled on pajama pants. Sherlock pulled him in for a soft, chaste kiss and then murmured, "Face-down, I think." John nodded and laid down wordlessly and Sherlock straddled his thighs, slowly pushing the heels of his hands from the waistline of his pants, up either side of his spine to his shoulders. John groaned almost obscenely and Sherlock firmly instructed his cock to ignore it. John was allowing him to caress and stroke and comfort him, and only now that Sherlock was doing those things did he realize how much he'd missed touching John. It'd been weeks since they'd so much as cuddled on the couch to watch crap telly. Again, he hadn't noticed.

He was having to redirect his cock quite a lot, though, as John kept letting quiet moans and groans and sighs slip out as Sherlock slowly ran his hands over his well-muscled back. When he realized the only tight muscles left were John's glutes, Sherlock willed himself to maintain his cool detachment and worked on massaging them. It didn't work, so he settled for carefully keeping his hips off of John's body as he felt John's arse quiver and go limp under his fingers. Eventually, he lifted off and instructed John to roll over with a nearly bored intonation.

Unfortunately, John opened his eyes as he was rolling and paused at the sight of Sherlock's tented pyjamas. "Ignore it," Sherlock insisted. "This isn't a sexy massage."

John smiled drunkenly; the Flexaril had clearly kicked in. "You're jus' spoiling me," he said sagely.

Sherlock smiled, a bit shyly. "I suppose I am a bit. Don't tell anyone, it'll ruin my reputation." He climbed on top of John and straddled his hips, staying up on his knees as he massaged John's (strong, firm, round) pecs, trying not to notice his nipples beading up. John moaned quietly as Sherlock soothed a small spasm near his clavicle, and Sherlock worked hard to keep his breathing deep and even, to Ignore his aching cock. Then suddenly, a warm hand was wrapping around it, squeezing him lightly and stroking once before Sherlock grasped his wrist. "I'm fine, John. You don't need to do that." John was relaxed and content for the first time in ages and Sherlock was content with that, didn't want to push him.

"Can' have you walkin' round' like that, can we?" The heat that flooded Sherlock's body had less to do with the hand on his cock than the fact that John had just honest-to-God teased him. He pulled John's boxer briefs down far enough to grasp his (mostly soft) prick. John squirmed a bit. "No, you don' need to. I can jus' bring you off, iss no big deal."

But John's cock was thickening rapidly in Sherlock's hand and he stroked it just as he'd stroked John's back, with long, sure movements, until he was fully hard. Then he let go, leaning forward to give John a deep, long kiss, and rolled his hips to rub their cocks together. "I missed you," he whispered in John's ear before dropping down to kiss at his neck. It was true; Sherlock hadn't realized how lonely and touch-starved he'd been.

"Haven't been away," John replied good-naturedly.

"You have," Sherlock breathed, biting John's collarbone as he rolled his hips hungrily. "God, you've been miles away." He worked his way back up John's neck and plundered his mouth again, moaning into it as John worked a hand between their bodies to wrap around them both. "Miles and miles, love." Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat as John twisted his fist around their heads with a different pressure. "I'm close already," he murmured into John's neck.

"Me, too," John breathed. He squeezed tighter, moved his hand faster, and panted, whimpering a bit when Sherlock moaned. "Let it go, love," he urged, and Sherlock gasped and shuddered as he came, John going stiff moments later and slowing his rhythm as he stroked them through it, spreading come everywhere. Sherlock collapsed beside him, pressing kisses to his mouth before John staggered to the loo, cock bouncing against his belly as he walked.

Sherlock's brain fired back online, and he realized that John had faked an orgasm.

This was very bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on UK vs US use of muscle relaxants. In the US, Flexaril is very commonly prescribed for muscle spasms; in the UK, it is tightly controlled because it is considered more potentially addictive and prone to abuse, so it is mostly only prescribed to people with Parkinson's Disease, Multiple Sclerosis, etc. Diazepam (Valium) seems to be the muscle relaxant of choice in the UK, whereas in the US it is more commonly used to treat anxiety and alcohol withdrawl. All of that to say that Sherlock having Flexaril stashed away would be more significant in the UK than in the US, because it's harder to come by.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find the topic of suicide triggering, please don't read on. (I 100% guarantee John will live to the end of this.)

Two days later, Sherlock woke to the sound of John quietly closing the door to their flat and making his way down the stairs and out into the world. He rolled over and looked at the clock. 6:55am. He stretched, his muscles aching against the stress of having passed out on the sofa again. Stumbling to the kitchen to put the kettle on, Sherlock’s brain began to fire and he started forming theories about where John had gone. It was too early to be headed to a therapy appointment, and he hadn’t mentioned working today. 

His wondering came to a swift end when he opened the refrigerator to get the milk and was greeted with a clean, floral scent. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looked on the only empty shelf and found a wilted tulip petal. Red, with yellow fringe. He stood frozen, staring at that flower petal for so long that eventually his refrigerator began beeping in protest at its low temperature. Shaking himself from his reverie, he picked up the petal, attempting to glean more information from it.

Despite whatever Sherlock insinuated at crime scenes, he knew that John was highly intelligent. If John was having an affair, he would not keep his paramour's flowers in the refrigerator. He considered other occasions that warranted flowers. Weddings. Funerals. Hospitalizations. Hostess gifts. Births. Birthdays. Anniversaries.

Sherlock considered whether perhaps it was possible that Harry had remained sober for a year. He was fairly certain that she had relapsed a few months back, although possibly John had not been aware; Sherlock had not mentioned it. However, at any rate, he kept coming back around to the flowers being _red_. One simply did not give red flowers to one's sister, or landlady, or mother, or coworker. Red flowers are highly romantic, so it seemed likely to Sherlock that the flowers were for him. But that didn't make sense; why would John put flowers for him in the refrigerator, and then remove them?

Next, he considered whether the flowers were for someone with whom John had a platonic relationship but harbored secret, perhaps unconscious, romantic feelings. Sherlock's mind flickered through possibilities but eventually came up empty. He continued like this for four agonizing hours, until he heard John's slightly uneven tread on the stairs. The doorknob turned, the door pushed open and –

" _Oh_." The word was slightly breathless. Sherlock glanced up and down John's body once more, to be certain. John's shoes were shined, his spine rigid. His shirt was tucked tightly into his trousers, wrinkled from the crush of the tube and the bus, but creases still evident from the immaculate pressing John had given them prior to leaving the flat. There was a smudge of dirt on one of John's shoes; he had been in nature.

John's eyes were wary, cautious, as he watched Sherlock deduce him. Sherlock met his gaze, and although certain of his deduction, he could not banish the hopeful question mark in his voice. "You went to see Major Sholto. You gave him flowers?"

They had never _said_ they were exclusive, not directly. Sherlock had assumed, but perhaps John had needed more than he could give. Sherlock knew he was limited, that what he could offer was never what John deserved, but he'd thought they were happy, that John had been happy. He swallowed against the thick knot in his throat and worked hard to keep his voice level. "You kept flowers in our refrigerator so they would be fresh when you gave them to another man." He said this, he thought, without accusation in his voice, but he feared that his naked hurt was showing on his face, because then John's eyes were widening in horror and he was shaking his head and walking toward him.

"No, Sherlock. I mean, yes, that's all true, but it's not what you think."

Sherlock laughed bitterly, his eyes suddenly burning treacherously. "Are you going to tell me that it didn't mean anything? One doesn't take flowers to have meaningless shags."

"No," John agreed. "But one does take flowers to a grave."

Sherlock counted several heartbeats. He stared into John's face, searching for the missing piece of data that would make the world make sense again, but his mind was not functioning properly. "Who died?"

It was John's turn to swallow hard. "James."

Relief flooded Sherlock with such intensity that he didn't contemplate the words before they burst out of them. "Oh, thank God."

John flinched, as though Sherlock had struck him.

Sherlock winced. "Apologies. I'm not happy that your ex-commander is dead, just there’s a reasonable explanation."

John nodded. "Understandable."

Sherlock's mind was working again, and he realized he had not yet unearthed the whole story. "You gave him red and yellow tulips. This has personal significance to the two of you; tulips are the unofficial flower of Afghanistan. You had an affair while you were overseas?" John looked uncomfortable. " _Oh._ Not an affair. A relationship. You were in love with him."

John winced, and Sherlock's voice drew quiet as he corrected himself again. " _Are_ in love with him." John dropped his gaze miserably, but Sherlock slogged through to the end. "That's why you didn't tell me."

Nodding, John kept his eyes on Sherlock's chest. "I just ... I wasn't ready to share it yet. And I knew you wouldn't understand..." His voice trailed off.

Sherlock took a quiet, steadying breath, trying to exhale the betrayal and his insecurity in the interest of helping John in this moment. He reached out, cradling John's face and lowering his head to catch John's eye. "What did you think I wouldn't understand?" He brushed his thumbs over John's cheekbones. "That I'm not the only person you've ever loved? That you have the capacity to love more than one person?" Gently, gently, as though he could break the fragile man beneath his fingertips, Sherlock stroked John's face. "He made you happy?"

John nodded, a faint, sad smile on his lips.

"Then I love him, too."

John looked up at Sherlock then, his damp eyes wide in surprise, but this has always been Sherlock's fundamental truth: he cannot help but love the people who love and rescue John, even when he childishly resents them. Even when he shouldn't.

Sherlock tugged, and pulled John tight to his chest, and for the first time in ages John melted into him. Sherlock kissed his head and traced his fingers over his scalp as he weighed what to say next. “Tell me about him?”

John shook his head against Sherlock's chest. "It's a bit of a long story," he apologized.

Sherlock pulled back. "I want to hear it," he reassured him, even though he desperately did _not_ , because it was illogical to feel threatened by a dead man, polyamoury is well within the spectrum of normal human sexuality, he knew John needed this, and it was the most John had spoken to him in weeks.

"Let's move to the sofa," John suggested. "Grab us a drink?"

Sherlock poured healthy measures of bourbon into rocks glasses even though it was not yet noon. He handed one to John and took a fortifying sip of his own before nodding to John to begin.

"I never expected it," John began. "He was my commander and I thought I was mostly straight. Never thought I'd meet anyone over there. But James was just ... he snuck up on me. He was handsome, and I admired him as a commander, and that was it for about a year. Then he was injured -- nothing life-threatening, just needed some sutures. I had to give him something for pain, because he'd bruised a rib, and he loosened up.” John smiled fondly, his eyes distant as he remembered. “Well, loose for James."

Sherlock's stomach clenched at the way John's voice caressed the name, but he nodded encouragingly, taking another small sip.

"And that was the day that I found out he was quite funny. He told me this story about his grandmother getting pissed and feeding biscuits to a bear. The bear got mad when the biscuits ran out, of course, and it tried to follow her in the house." John chuckled. "He was moving around, trying to act the whole thing out, while I'm trying to sew him shut. Blood everywhere."

Sherlock smiled a bit, allowing himself to imagine it, to step outside of himself and see it objectively. "You flirted."

"A bit, yeah. He was down to his pants and I sent some signals. Figured it was safe to test the waters and we could both pretend it was a joke the next day, because of the pain pills, but he definitely returned my interest." He took a sip of his drink, watching the amber liquid swirl in his glass. "It was another month of him pulling me to do this or that and then us falling into easy conversation before we even kissed, but we both knew it was coming. It was very intense."

The words twisted in Sherlock's belly, wiping away his objectivity, but he kept a relaxed, supportive smile on his face. “That must’ve been quite the scandal.”

John shifted, kicking off his shoes and putting his feet in Sherlock’s lap so he’d rub his arches. “It would’ve been, if anyone had known. People suspected, but we were very careful. We had to be. After a few months, James started assigning other medics to the more dangerous missions. We had a huge row about it, our only one, really. He couldn’t stand the thought of sending me into danger, and I knew I’d never survive the guilt if one of the other medics had been wounded or killed. And that, disrupting missions, is the kind of shit that ends in court marshals and lockup. People were starting to notice. We needed to break things off, we actually tried, but we just couldn’t keep it up. We were both miserable. We saw each other every day but we didn’t talk, and we missed each other desperately. After about two weeks, I went out and very nearly got hit, and that was the end of us pretending we could be apart.”

John paused suddenly, and Sherlock realized what was coming. “And then everything fell apart.”

“Indeed.” John took a gulp of his drink, swallowing it slowly before going on. “I wasn’t there when it happened. I was back at the base, and when they brought him in …” He shook his head. “They called me in to help treat his injuries, and he was dying, Sherlock, I swore he was dying, you can’t even imagine how he looked. I panicked, God knows what I said in that moment. I’m sure everyone in there realized what was going on. One of the other doctors held my fingers to the pulse in his neck, told me to feel his heart beating and breathe with him. Then we got to work trying to keep it all going. Hours and hours of surgery. Saved his life, but if he’d been with specialists they could have saved more of his function.” His voice had turned bitter. “He was helicoptered out as soon as he was stable. And then I had to wait for news, and listen to everyone go on about what a coward he was, and how much they hated him, and that he deserved to die. And he was just _gone_ and there was nothing I could do. I didn’t even know for sure if he was alive or dead.”

Sherlock absorbed those last few sentences, guilt and shame and horror washing over him. “John, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. When I jumped … I didn’t know.” He shook his head, blinking back tears. “Little wonder you punched me.”

John nudged him with his toes and smiled his sad, but-that’s-all-behind-us-now smile. “You couldn’t have known. It was eerily similar, though. I suppose I have a type.” He shook his head. “I always thought that when I got back to London, we’d be together, but he never even visited me in hospital when I first returned. He was notified, I know he was. I resented him a long time over that, but we started emailing and calling each other some when you were gone. He said he knew he was no good for me the way he was since returning, and that he couldn’t bear to have something and then lose it again. And I was scared of that, too. Nearly did me in the first time around. But I always hoped that he’d get help, get better, and things would be different.”

Sherlock’s face broke rank, pain flickering through his eyes before he could stop it. 

John sat up a bit, setting down his glass. “Sherlock, listen to me. You are not, nor have you ever been, my back up or my second choice. My James, the one that was alive in Afghanistan, was perfect for the person I was then, but you are perfect for me now. Yes,” he continued, seeing Sherlock’s mouth opening to protest,” -- _perfect_. I grieved losing you like I grieved losing him, and I was just as scared of losing you a second time. The difference is that when I was ready to risk it, you were ready, too. We were both scared, but you were in it with me, and that time we jumped together.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s foot in silent gratitude. John fell quiet, and Sherlock debated whether to continue. Was it better to get it all out at once? Quietly, gently, carefully, he spoke. "Did you know he was suicidal?"

John didn’t answer right away. “Well, he certainly was ready to die at the wedding, wasn’t he? The last time we spoke he seemed a bit better than normal, but he’s been deeply unhappy for years. So, I suppose I didn’t have any indication that he was in any immediate danger, but it probably should not have been as shocking as it was.” 

A long, comfortable silence fell between them, and Sherlock shifted through the data and emotions swirling inside him. The most important part was that they were all right. John was grieving, and he might keep on grieving, but he was going to be fine as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of my understanding of soldier life in a war zone comes from episodes of M*A*S*H*, so I apologize for what I have to think are rampant inaccuracies. If you see anything that is fairly easy to correct, do let me know. Otherwise, let's just chalk it up to creative license, yeah? ;) 
> 
>  
> 
> Life-affirming sex in the last chapter. Stay tuned!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life- and relationship-affirming sex!

John studied Sherlock’s face, which would have passed as unruffled to anyone else; only John could see the massive freak-out going on just beneath the surface. Sherlock, who never believed he was good enough for John, would be mentally punishing himself for standing between him and James. Oh, he would know, objectively, that John had chosen him, but he wouldn’t feel its truth. Not when John had been so distant for so long.

He stood, pulling Sherlock to his feet, and silently led him to the bedroom. “Sherlock,” he murmured, reaching on tiptoe and pulling his face down for a kiss. Sherlock responded tentatively, not certain how to act in light of the glut of data John had thrown at him, as though he was unsure whether John really wanted this, wanted _him_. Reaching up to cradle his face, John pressed in, parting their lips to slide his tongue against Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock responded in kind, his tongue warm and soft, his lean body alert but eager. Pulling him closer, John kissed Sherlock slow and deep. He shifted, pressing a steadying, reassuring hand to the back of Sherlock’s head as he insinuated his other hand under the back of his shirt to stroke his fingers over smooth, pale skin. Sherlock shivered, crushing his face forward, tugging at John’s shirt until it was loose from his trousers. Suddenly, clothes seemed like too much of a barrier, and John was desperate for skin-on-skin. He pulled Sherlock’s T-shirt up, breaking apart long enough to fling it away before diving back in, kissing frantically as he unbuttoned his shirt. By the time it was on the floor, Sherlock had managed to kick off his bottoms and pants without breaking the kiss and was tugging on John’s belt. Together, they managed to divest John of the rest of his clothes rather quickly.

Once they were nude, things slowed down. They wrapped their arms around each other, sighing in relief when their skin was finally touching from lips to thighs. John turned their frantic kisses slow and soft, savouring the taste of Sherlock on his tongue. He guided them toward the bed, eager to get closer. Sherlock broke the kiss, finally, when the backs of his knees met the mattress, sitting down and scooting back. 

John crawled over him, kissing his way lightly up Sherlock’s body. He let his weight settle over Sherlock, meeting him for a soft kiss before rolling them on their sides. Weaving their legs together, they clutched at each other, pressing their foreheads together and letting the relief of their closeness wrap around them like a cocoon. They lay there, sharing breaths and occasional kisses, feeling the reassuring beats of their hearts against one another’s chests. After a time, John settled in to kissing Sherlock’s neck, laving every sensitive inch of it with attention. Sherlock quivered and panted against him. “ _John_ ,” he breathed. 

John ran a warm tongue along the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “Sherlock,” he murmured. 

Sherlock pulled back, stroking John’s face, eyes tight. “John?”

“Sherlock,” John pressed in for a brief, soft kiss. “There’s no one in this room except you and me.” Sherlock relaxed, and John pressed back in, kissing him long and soft and sweet, nudging their hips together for some gentle friction, but there was no urgency in it. Sherlock’s fingers found his and they tangled together, just like their limbs and tongues, giving and taking the reassurance they both so desperately needed. 

After many sighs and caresses and names whispered like talismans, John rolled off, reaching into a drawer and then tipping what he needed onto his fingers. He spread himself open, knowing that Sherlock would need to be the one to put them back together again. “Sherlock,” he beckoned, laying back, tilting his hips upward. 

Sherlock settled himself between John’s knees, dropping down for a kiss before pushing into him slowly, carefully. They rocked together, gently, no agenda in mind other than anchoring themselves to the present, to each other. Damp foreheads pressed together and lips and fingers soothed their invisible hurts, smoothing them away, leaving whispered promises in their place.

Long fingers wrapped around him, and the heat inside John grew more insistent, expanding until it burst out of him with a quiet cry of relief. Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, moving inside him with a steady, reassuring pressure. John ran his fingers down Sherlock’s back, to his hips, urging them closer. Sherlock caught them and, pressing their tangled fingers to the mattress by John’s head. 

“John,” he gasped as he pushed into him more urgently, eyes wild, looking suddenly overwhelmed. 

“I’m here, Sherlock,” John reassured him, his gaze unwavering as his hips rocked up to meet him. “I’m right here, I’ve got you.” 

Sherlock cried out, sounding surprised by the suddenness and intensity of his climax. He slowed his movements, pressing down for one last, long kiss before pulling out and collapsing beside him. Brushing away the tears on Sherlock’s cheekbones, John burrowed close, tucking his head beneath his chin. He laid his ear against Sherlock’s chest, listened to his heart beating, and breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “no one in this room except you and me” line was shamelessly stolen from Joss Whedon. I still haven’t recovered from Firefly being canceled.


End file.
